Symphony of Destruction
by RaichuTec
Summary: It was a dark and stormy night when President ShinRa breathed his last...


(Disclaimer: Final Fantasy 7 characters and settings belong to SquareSoft. No characters were actually harmed in the making of this fiction. As always, the toys will be put away after I'm done with them.)

**Symphony of Destruction**

A storm broke over Midgar some time after darkness settled over the city. Hardly a concern, as most who lived beneath the plates would never even realize it until acidic water finally snaked down the piping into the slums. Those who lived among the privileged of the Upper Plate would marvel at the lightning forking across the skies, momentarily, and then return to the doldrums of their structured realities. Nature was beyond them. Something to watch on a Saturday afternoon when the ShinRa Corporation hosted an animal show to display the dangers of the wild that exists past their bubbled lives. How great ShinRa protected them from the simplistic brutality of the world outside.

Tonight he would remind them.

In the labs, the flash of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder could not be heard anymore than the susurration of his boots against the cement flooring, deafened by the sound of quiet static, the hum of florescent lighting and the little radio stationed beside one of the researcher's desks. It droned out the recent scores to the soccer tournament that went on down below, the announcer steadfastly updating listeners who were too bored or busy to even notice. Screens flickered with data, passing so quickly that the human eye could easily miss or error, and yet those who stand watch over the flow could so easily decipher it without thought. Those blips meant the temperature rose too quickly, that nonsensical symbol represented feeding time for a specimen. All triggered and programmed and perfectly ordered.

The research floor itself felt only a surge of power, lightning striking one of the tall pillars of Midgar. The lights flickered briefly, bringing heads to lift and exchange uneasy glances. Even if they toiled without knowing how nature's swordarm stalked their halls. But he wouldn't bother with them yet, for they were nothing but worker bees in a hive rotting out from under them. It is the Queen he sought, his queen. He could feel her, hear her singing to him through his blood. It was not his body with which he roamed, merely a housing of flesh taken over. A failed attempt to recreate him instead provided a lovely egress for his spirit, leaving his real self, the body born and raised on this planet, behind to continue the slow and laborious process of healing. But her cells were inside the mortal shell and she guided him through them, whispering and caressing him as if he were an infant in her arms, safe and warm with the sound of her heartbeat.

They do not see him, nor would they unless he wanted it. He could already sense their positions, hunched over terminals or taking samples or nodding off at their stations. But they were trivial. His goal waited for him on the research floor, within the confinement of a cooler. His motions ceased, gloved fingers reaching out to touch the window, pressing a pale cheek against the cold glass as he sensed her nearness, the breast he never suckled from, the body that never bore him, the arms that never held him. And yet she had done all these things for him in her own fashion, as any mother would for her son.

The door is removed without thought for consequences. It is a part of his plan, for he was mad, or so they said. But he never felt as rational as he did right then. The planet never belonged to these insects. Like locusts they swarmed the planet and consumed life and he was here to cleanse them, to take back that which was never theirs to begin with. Sirens blared, the lights on the research floor dimming to flicker the red warning beacons. Lock down on floor sixty-eight. A monotone female voice droned on heavily, urging all researchers to remain seated. The hiss of air escaped the hydraulics around him as he reached inside and grasped the body that had been left there far too long. Sensors and nodes tore, for he was not gentle with her body. Jenova long ago transcended above the sensations of pain or pleasure, her spirit has existed for thousands of years, her will at last finding release in her son. So there was no degradation in dragging the half-frozen flesh across the floor, leaving behind him a trail of her ancient blood to forever stain their hallways.

The doors had already shut, but they tore like tin foil beneath his gloved fingers, ripped asunder from the pressured hydraulics system that kept them closed. Someone screamed to see him emerge from the darkened research floor. He could feel her delicious terror, a secretary who had the misfortune of being around the researchers today. She turned to run, but the Masamune took away her legs at the knees and he left her there, weeping and writhing, bleeding to death.

One by one, the doors were forced open. The thirst for blood knew no ending, not as her song vibrated within him and her demand for a sacrifice of these insects. Destruction of the house that had held her prisoner, who dared bring harm to her only flesh and blood. They would fall like the House of Usher, awash in a crimson tide of their own undoing. Their screams rang with a sweet cacophony in his ears, the warmth of their lives splattering over the paleness of his cheeks, dripping along the sharpened blade of the Masamune. By the time he broached the stairwell, it was not Jenova's blood alone that smeared the flooring.

Patiently, he climbed the stairs. Few attempted to stand in his way, only the occasional guard summoned to his immediate whereabouts. He was patient, but unforgiving. They fell by the wayside, left as no more than corpses in a trail of death. Even the SOLDIERs and Turks who protected the President himself. Their efforts were futile and he climbed the final stairs, staining their marble brilliance with dark vermilion and cooling bodies.

Outside, the lightning flashed, rain pelting the window to the President's office insistently. He stood there like an angel of death, ghastly white in pallor, made paler still by the crimson stains marking his cheeks, his chest, anywhere the dark clothing he donned did not cover. In his hands he held the dai-katana, Masamune, stained dark red with the blood of his victims. In the other he grasped the chilled body of Jenova, headless and yet leering, her naked form leaving trails of viscous fluid from the holding tank to mingle with her alien lifeblood. But, most frightening was the madness in those alien green eyes, Mako green, like the lifestream material ShinRa reactors processed on a daily basis. Sephiroth was no longer a man, he realized with stark terror. Before him now was a force of nature, here to extract Her vengeance.

"Sephiroth..." he gasped, eyes wide in surprise. He rose slowly to his feet, incredulous, arguing with his mind now to discern for himself if this were real or some perverse fever dream. "We thought... we thought you were dead."

"You wish I were dead," came the cold reply, followed by a leering smile.

"N-no, that's not true," the President backpedaled, forcing his seat back to allow him room to maneuver. Outside, the storm continued to beat upon the window, a peal of thunder rumbling through the office, vibrating and enhancing the terror now wrapped tightly around his heart. "Please, surely there can be, there can be some sort of agreement, a way to negotiate."

"It doesn't matter anyway," the voice intoned casually, "I'm here to kill you."

"Wait!" the president sputtered, holding his hands out imploringly, no longer caring how his actions betrayed him as a wanton coward, "It's not my fault... I had no idea Hojo was holding you like that in his labs. If I had known I would have--"

"Would have what? Placed me in SOLDIER sooner?" came the wry response. The silvery head shook, long bangs swaying with the motion. He clucked his tongue at the president as if scolding a child. "Come now, we both know you would never have changed a thing. You've been a naughty boy, President ShinRa. But, I am willing to give you one chance."

He gestured with his sword arm, suggesting that the president turn around, "Go, turn and run, Mr. President. Run away from me, for your life. Because I am going to kill you now."

It was his only chance, and when given it, President ShinRa-- who had ruled over the great empire handed down to him by his father and his grandfather-- turned toward the window. He prayed that Sephiroth, the angel of death that followed him so closely, would grant him just enough time to get to the balcony. From there he could summon SOLDIERs, he could summon Turks and guards and troopers and--

The swordpoint pierced his gut before he could lay a palm against the sliding glass door. The Masamune barely protruded but perhaps a foot past his chest, glinting as another fork of lightning pitched across the stormy skies. His heart struggled to beat, his lungs struggled to take in air. He could only stand there and realize with dread certainty that he was dying.

Sephiroth watched with a detached gaze as the president made his last struggles for life, slumping finally and leaving his weight against the sword. He smiled, lifting the body effortlessly and dumping it back into the chair, before the desk and the paperwork there that once decided the fate for an entire nation. Jenova purred her approval, the sensation warming him from within while he leaned over, murmuring quietly into the dying president's ear the last words he would hear before the world faded to black around him.

"Sors immanis. Et inanis."


End file.
